


rather like a puppet on a string

by andawaywego



Category: Glee
Genre: Drinking, F/F, Moderate language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-26
Updated: 2015-11-26
Packaged: 2018-05-03 12:40:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5291240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andawaywego/pseuds/andawaywego
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He’s never been one for mystery novels or Scooby Doo, but that doesn’t stop the fact that he wants to solve the mystery of Rachel’s hickey. Especially because she’s gone to some length to hide it." Faberry from Kurt's POV. Sequel to "love love or whatever, take a number."</p>
            </blockquote>





	rather like a puppet on a string

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: i do honestly apologize for taking such a long break. work be cray and i've been, consequently, dying the moment i get home.
> 
> takes place after "love love or whatever, take a number"--like a month later. it's set the day before Thanksgiving and everything is from Kurt's perspective.
> 
> there's a lot of talk about Finn in this and i'm not sure if some of the references i made to The Quarterback are correct, seeing as i just saw it the once and don't plan on watching it again. so, suspension of disbelief.
> 
> anyway, like it or hate it, let me know.
> 
> Kurt's kind of a jerk for a bit, so that's fun. i tried to make his actions understandable and him redeemable, but i suppose we'll see if it works.
> 
> peace.

…

_rather like a puppet on a string_

..

 

It’s not a Halloween party.

Okay, so there are a couple of Jack-o-Lanterns on the refreshment table and _Monster Mash_ is playing on the sound system in the corner of the Hummel-Hudson living room.

And he told everyone to wear a costume.

And the banner above the door says, “Trick Or Treat.”

But a Halloween-themed party held the day before Thanksgiving can hardly be considered an actual Halloween party. Especially if some of the guests are dressed as turkeys and pilgrims.

Kurt stands by that, even if Burt and Carole had seem a little unconvinced when he shuffles them out the door early on in the evening with a gift card to Olive Garden and a, “Have a nice date night, you two!” while Blaine looks on with his arms crossed.

Blaine doesn’t believe him either.

But he hadn’t said that, exactly. He doesn’t have to.

And Kurt sort of thought that part of being married was standing by your spouse’s ideas, even if said idea is merely a trap to catch his or her roommate’s secret lover unawares.

“It’s just a little late in the season for a Halloween party, don’t you think?” are Blaine’s exact words, said as he teeters on a dining room chair, taping the banner into place on the wall.

Kurt loosens his steadying grip on his husband’s lower thighs in exasperation. It isn’t the first time they’ve had the discussion.

“I’m merely throwing a party at a time when our high school friends will be in Lima and available the night before the holiday they are returning for,” Kurt answers, looking anywhere but at Blaine—who _really_ should have been paying more attention, what with the way the chair is wobbling.

“So this has nothing to do with the hickey?”

The hickey. Of course. Not that Kurt would ever admit it, but it _does_ have to do with the hickey.

He’s never been one for mystery novels or _Scooby Doo_ —except half of one of the movies with Sarah Michelle Gellar because Finn had been watching it at home that one time and, let’s face it, she’s fabulous—but that doesn’t stop the fact that he wants to solve the mystery of Rachel’s hickey.

Especially because she’s gone to some length to hide it.

After her trip back to Ohio in October for Fall Break, she’d returned with a spring in her step and a newfound love of scarves, suddenly prone to locking herself in her room after dinner to have hushed conversations with someone on the phone and disappearing to New Haven every weekend to see her new BFF Quinn.

Or so she said.

Needless to say, Kurt had finds it all a little weird.

But the weirdest part came two or so weeks after her return, when they’d all been sitting down to breakfast with the same morning routine and conversation on repeat.

Kurt asked the usual questions—“Any big plans for the week?” and, “Did you sleep okay?” and, “Blaine, can you _not_ slurp your orange juice like that?”

They were met as they always were—“Oh, the usual,” and, “Just fine, thanks,” and a groggy, “Sorry, babe,” from Blaine on the subject of his O.J.

“Well, I’m out of here,” Rachel said, as she always did, right before Kurt was trying to figure out a way to tastefully say, _Rachel Berry, have you taken a lover?!_

But then, a clue.

Or, well. Not a clue. Because clues are things that crazy, Nancy-Drew-obsessed weirdos find in the mundane.

But just as Rachel bent down a bit to pour the remainder of her ice water down the drain, he saw it. A faded purple patch of abused skin on the junction of her neck and shoulder.

Kurt nearly gasped.

Blaine gave him a worried look, as though afraid that his husband was about to have a stroke.

Rachel smiled at them, tugged her scarf back up to hide it, and waved a bit before flitting out of the room with a, “See you boys tonight.”

The apartment door had barely been just for a millisecond before Kurt was whipping his head around to stare Blaine down and shriek, “Did you see that?”

And of course, that led to a long conversation that eventually ended with Blaine saying, “Just leave it alone, honey, okay? I’m sure she has a reason for not telling us. Don’t meddle.”

Not that it really stopped Kurt from going through the list of possible suitors.

Naturally, he doubted that Rachel was dating anyone new and not _just_ because she seems to have trouble dating anyone she didn’t go to high school with—not that _he_ can talk, really, because he married his high school boyfriend.

But the whole behavior change did start immediately after her trip to Ohio.

His first thought was to ask Quinn. She’d gone back at the same time, after all, and Rachel had been with her every weekend since. Or so she’s said.

The moment Blaine left for work, Kurt had tugged out his phone and pulled up his seldom-used but conveniently-still-there contact profile for Quinn. Surprisingly for an Ivy-Leaguer on a Monday morning, she’d answered.

“Don’t you have class or something?” he’d asked, genuine confusion over her answering and his own calling in his voice.

“Hello to you, too,” she’d returned on the other end and Kurt supposed he couldn’t really talk.

After all, his own Monday schedule was light in the way of class—one of the only days of the week he had off for the most part between NYADA and work.

“Never mind,” he’d redirected. “I have a question of some importance to ask you.”

Having just realized that he’d never talked to Quinn Fabray on the phone, he suddenly found himself nervous. Almost like it was all some weird, out-of-body fever dream.

Brief hesitation in the breath she took—making Kurt wonder if she was perhaps getting sick from the change in weather—and then, “Shoot.”

“When you were back in Lima with Rachel…” Another hitch and he changed tactics, worry tinting his, “You’re not getting sick are you?”

Ironically, she’d coughed the word, “No,” then given him a raspy, “Go on.”

“Did Rachel happen to reconnect with any…hm—” He searched for the correct term. “—gentleman caller? Sam, perhaps? Or Jesse St. James?”

Quinn’s, “What? No,” sounded just the tiniest bit off for some reason and he wondered if maybe he’d just happened to hit the nail on the head.

Jesse _was_ living in New York, after all. Or so he’d heard through the proverbial grape vine.

It would be so easy for Rachel to simply say she was headed for the train station and then go to wherever it is he’s living these days for her gross, heterosexual couplings.

“You’re positive?” he’d pressed. “She’s not…lying about coming to visit you every weekend?”

He’d been so positive he’d had her, too. He’d been so certain that she was simply covering for her friend and he was half-convinced still when her answer was, “Uh…N-No. No. She’s…She’s been coming here.”

Oh, how the mighty have fallen. Quinn Fabray, the girl who’d once convinced someone he’d impregnated her without ever having actual sex with her, was stumbling over her excuse.

“Okay. Great, thanks. Talk to you soon! Bye.”

He hung up. And, of course, he’d realized in that moment what a jerk he was being—prying into his roommate/best friend’s personal life.

Not that it stopped him from sending out a festive e-vite to everyone he knew was returning to Lima for Thanksgiving and buying too many clearance Halloween decorations from Target.

He put too much work into it, really. Making sure Sam and Jesse would be there, staking out Rachel’s returns from “New Haven” to see if he could spot any fresh love-bites, attempting to eavesdrop on her phone calls and Googling whether or not it’s possible to gain access to someone’s call log without a warrant.

Maybe he should get out more.

But a party is perfect for this kind of thing, he imagines. Everyone will be too thrilled to see each other again, inhibitions—what with Puck coming and, likely, bringing alcohol—so if two people attending _did_ happen to be screwing in secret, Kurt can only imagine that it will show at least slightly once they’re there.

So when Blaine asks him if this whole party has been a disguise, a way to get all of Rachel’s potential secret lovers in one place and watch their interactions closely, he scoffs and says, “As if.”

Because that would be crazy.

Right?

.

Okay, so it’s definitely a trap.

He’s orchestrated a trap.

Or, what’s supposed to be a trap, anyway, and was apparently turned into some sort of Halloween-Thanksgiving celebration hybrid.

If the fact that Tina comes dressed as a turkey says anything.

Brittany and Santana come as sexy Pilgrims and Indians respectively and the first thing he says is, “How offensive and risqué you’ve managed to look ,” when he hugs them both in greeting.

Santana says, “Bite me, microphallus, ” with a smile on her face and, honestly, Kurt just rolls his eyes.

He lived with the girl and, after a while, her insults just become mundane and repetitive.

“You look lovely, ladies,” he tries instead and Brittany bounces on her heels.

“What kind of candy do you have?” she asks and Kurt steps out of the doorway so they can enter, gesturing over at the refreshment table by the couch.

Blaine waves feebly from his spot by the stereo.

“Were we the only people you invited? _Jesus,”_ Santana grumbles as she follows her wife towards the eerily lit bowls of mini candy bars and peeled grapes. “Really, Hummel?” she asks, holding one of the grapes up. “So cliché.”

“Ooh,” Brittany coos, taking the grape from Santana. “Spooky.” She pops it into her mouth. “But why?”

“They’re supposed to be like eyeballs or something,” Blaine pipes in from the couch, rolling his eyes, which makes Kurt roll _his_ eyes and then it’s just this whole big thing.

“Peeled grapes are a Halloween classic,” Kurt defends, crossing his arms. “Finn used to—”

Even if he hadn’t cut himself off, the looks the other three give him would have done it for him.

Santana looks away quickly.

Brittany stops chewing.

Blaine gives him this doe-eyed, sad look.

They act as though they’ve never heard his name before. Or like they don’t even so much as think about him anymore.

It almost makes Kurt angry, even though he doesn’t really either. Rachel is the only other person who doesn’t walk on metaphorical eggshells when it comes to memories involving his stepbrother.

Rachel, that’s right.

The trap.

That is, the plan.

The party and the reason he’s wearing an orange ascot and blue sweater—why Blaine is wearing a baggy green shirt and a fake soul patch.

The doorbell rings and Kurt—along with everyone else—jumps about a foot in the air.

“Hey,” Brittany says, drawing out the final vowel. “Somebody’s here.”

The somebody is Puck, who comes swaggering in wearing a cop costume, weighed down by a few paper bags labeled _Pony Keg._

He doesn’t have to guess what’s in them.

“Howdy, fellas,” he drawls with a smirk, making eyes over his aviators. “Lady-fellas,” he throws in towards Brittany, who smiles and waves, and Santana, who scoffs.

“Puckerman,” she greets dismissively.

Moving out of the way of the door, he reveals Sam who waves a pom-pom in Kurt’s face.

“Hey, Kurt,” he says, grinning. “Thanks for inviting me.”

“Samuel Evans, what are you supposed to be?” is what Kurt says instead of a proper greeting.

In all fairness, though, Sam is holding a pom-pom in one hand and wearing a foam finger on the other, but as far as Kurt can see, he’s not a cheerleader. Instead, his shirt reads, _Go, Box!!!_

He gets it a split second before Sam says, “I’m a box fan,” but he plasters on a smile instead of sneering.

“That’s magnificent, come in, come in.”

Who knew rushing someone in to avoid the late-November chill could be such a great topic changer?

The next half hour or so is mostly just more people filtering in—the occasional squeal of delight when he sees Mercedes, wearing cat ears and makeup, and Tina the Turkey. Jesse arrives fashionably late in an old-fashioned scuba suit that he explains as being part of his costume for the musical version of _20,000 Leagues Under the Sea_.

Kurt doesn’t really ask past that.

He keeps a close eye on Jesse and Sam—and, being realistic, Puck—because, even without Rachel being around for them to make hypothetical googly eyes at, he wonders if merely watching them interact with everyone else will give anything away.

It doesn’t.

He’s two beers and a cocktail deep when Rachel breezes in over an hour and a half after everyone else, looking flustered and rushed—he almost wonders if her straightener broke again, what with the way her hair is mussed and her fake-lensed glasses are askew. She’s breathless when she grabs Kurt’s Solo cup from him and chugs the rest of it.

“Hey,” she rasps when she pulls away, shaking her head like it’s in desperate need of clearing.

Sam is looking at her from across the room. Not forlornly or anything. Just with the passing interest of someone who has made out with the person they’re looking at. More than once.

He looks away after a moment and Kurt turns his attention back to Rachel.

“Christ, woman, you sound like you just ran a marathon. What were you doing?”

She freezes at his question and he half-wonders if maybe he was wrong about his assumptions.

It’s clear that she was… _preoccupied._ But all of her potential male suitors—at least the ones that were most obvious—are currently in the same room as him.

“I apologize for my late arrival,” is what she responds with, rather than even attempting to answer his question.

“Quinn, you made it!” someone says beside him.

It’s Brittany and Quinn is standing in front of them in a purple dress and go-go boots, looking out of place and distant.

Kurt can’t help but smile at the fact that she—along with Blaine and Rachel, in her orange sweater and black skirt—had followed his group costume idea.

Because even if he originally only wanted to throw this party to catch Rachel and her special someone, he’s never been one _not_ to go all out.

“Of course I did,” Quinn says, accepting Brittany’s hug and returning Santana’s nod. “Not like I have any big plans for this break besides Thanksgiving tomorrow.”

Santana, scooping the cherry out of her Rob Roy, says, “I thought you had that dinner with your mom tonight.”

Kurt doesn’t catch the way Quinn’s eyes drift to Rachel as Santana says this. He’s far too busy watching Jesse attempt to pop-and-lock with Sugar in the makeshift dance floor.

“Yeah, um,” Quinn clears her throat, which draws Kurt’s attention back to the conversation at hand.

He glances at Rachel, who is staring down into her— _his—_ empty Solo cup.

“I’m gonna just go…” Rachel trails off, nodding in the general direction of Mercedes and Artie.

Kurt, zoned out and trying to figure out _who_ it was that delayed Rachel, doesn’t hear the rest of Quinn’s conversation with the other two.

No, instead, he becomes focused on the front door opening and Michael Chang entering, looking around the room to take it in.

He’s taller than Kurt remembers and he, himself, looks a little mussed and muddled, even if he thinks that might be intentional for his Harry Potter costume.

Kurt’s eyes, needless to say, become as big as saucers.

He’s not at all surprised when Mike crosses the room to catch up with Mercedes, Artie, and _Rachel_ first—completely bypassing his ex-girlfriend, doing the chicken dance in the dance floor.

“You okay, dude?”

This comes from Sam, who draws Kurt’s attention away from the sight of Mike and Rachel laughing.

Blaine is with him and both of them are staring at him—Sam with mild worry and a hint of confusion, Blaine with blatant suspicion.

“Hmm?” Kurt asks, despite the fact that he heard the other man perfectly.

Sam repeats himself.

“Oh, yes. I’m fine. Just had a bit too much already.” He goes to wave his Solo cup around for good measure, only to remember that Rachel took it from him.

He sends a glare her way.

And, oh, look. Puckerman has joined the conversation and now has one arm wrapped around Rachel’s shoulders.

That wouldn’t surprise him either, honestly. Especially with that horrible back-and-forth display Quinn and her had all through high school.

It would only be fitting for Rachel to fall back into the arms of her former-week-long boyfriend after Quinn tried him out for real and Finn—

Never mind. How crass of him.

Rachel can be with an-and _sleep with_ whoever she wants. Her past has nothing to with it and Kurt _really_ shouldn’t meddle.

Blaine’s look is saying the exact same thing.

And Kurt isn’t sure if it’s the alcohol or the realization of his own irrational behavior or the memories of _Finn_ that’s making him feel this way.

But whatever it is, he has to sit down.

“I’ll, um. I’ll be right back.”

Sam, still looking worried, says, “Yeah, sure, man,” and Blaine even looks concerned now and not accusatory.

It would be cliché and predictable to go to Finn’s room for this brief reflection on his recent behavior, so Kurt doesn’t go there. But he does slide down the wall to sit on the floor right next to his bedroom.

The door is closed just like it always is. Kurt isn’t even surprised.

These days, it’s more like a tomb than a bedroom. Nothing they decided to keep has been touched since the initial sorting, as far as he knows.

It’s almost strange that he feels guilty for so much as thinking about Finn what with the way he’s been acting.

He doesn’t bring him up, but, in all fairness, no one really does anymore.

Maybe it’s painful or off-putting or some sick combination of the two and that’s why. Maybe it’s just easier to pretend to forget.

It’s fitting, too, a little bit, that he’s feeling sick at his own (not-)Halloween party. Almost like Finn is haunting this house and watching from every single corner and window.

Kurt wishes he could ask his stepbrother what he thinks of Rachel’s potential secret lover. He’d like to think that Finn would be hurt, or worse, mad.

“Like” being the operative word here, of course. He wouldn’t like it, per se, but at least if Finn was feeling those things it would be mean he’s still around to feel them.

He wishes a lot of things—that Finn could have been at his and Blaine’s (Brittany’s and Santana’s) wedding, that Finn would be there to tell him to “keep his chin up” when he’s stressed, to hear him simply laugh again or, share in one of those super rare “Furt” hugs. Because, for all the times he messed up, Finn really did have the softest of hugs.

But he also knows that Finn, above all, would be proud of Rachel for finding happiness with someone else.

Maybe that’s the worst part. Maybe that’s why Kurt is being so creepy and overprotective. Maybe he’s doing it because Finn can’t—or because, if he’s being honest, Finn _wouldn’t._

He hardly notices when Rachel settles down to sit beside him, leaning her back into the closed bedroom door.

“Are you alright? Blaine said you weren’t feeling well.”

Below them, the distant sounds of _Weird Watusi_ are filtering through several layers of plaster and carpeting.

Kurt doesn’t know what she’s asking about exactly—whether he’s emotionally alright or if she’s simply making sure he isn’t in the beginning stages of alcoholism, so he goes with the painfully obvious lie of, “I’m okay.”

Rachel doesn’t buy that, of course. He hadn’t actually expected her too.

Silence for a few moments and then he can’t help but ask, “Are you happy?”

She’s confused by that and it’s clear in the way she reels back when he looks at her, head thumping a bit on Finn’s door. “What?”

“The person…whoever he is. Does he make you happy?”

Her face does this thing—one he remembers it doing in high school when he’d done that sad excuse for a makeover in order to sabotage her chances with Finn.

His vision swims and this time it’s definitely the alcohol.

“Yeah,” she tells him. “I’m happy.”

Kurt nods. “Happy and in love, I presume?”

Rachel giggles a little and it’s this high pitched thing that almost makes his ears ring.

She clears her throat. “Um…Yeah, Kurt. Happy and in love.”

He’d already known that—heard it in her voice a few days prior when she was on the phone in her bedroom saying, “I know _you_ like me, silly. I just want to make sure that your mom doesn’t… _hate me_.” He remembers it because she’d been quiet for a moment, listening to whoever she was speaking to and he’d pressed his ear closer to the door just in time to hear, “I love you too, baby. But it _does_ matter whether she likes me or not.”

It was said so softly and surely that he’d been certain he’d heard her wrong.

But then the way she carries herself these days and that confident air she’s had—the fact that she agreed to wear that hideous excuse for a Velma Dinkley costume and the embarrassed way she’d been twirling her hair around her finger when she’d been talking to Mercedes and Mike.

“Good,” he says and it sounds steady. “I’m happy for you.”

It all seems crazy now—the party, the attempted sabotage. He’s not even positive what he was hoping to happen at this party or how he was going to “catch them in the act.”

It’s all nonsense now.

“You look ridiculous in that outfit,” Rachel says a moment later, tugging at his ascot.

He shoos her hand away. “You don’t look any better.” He pushes her sliding glasses back up.

“Well, at least I’m not dressed like a slutty turkey,” she jokes, smiling and Kurt snorts when he laughs in surprise. “That was mean. I’m so sorry, Tina!”

She directs the last part down the stairs even though the music is too loud and they’re too far away for Tina to have even heard her, let alone know what she was talking about.

“Why didn’t Santana dress like Santa Claus?” is her next question, and she’s holding his hand softly.

Kurt bumps their heads together, back against the door and says, “Why?”

“You know, like…Santana Claus or something.”

He makes a face that lasts long enough to direct at her and then, “That is the worst thing I’ve ever heard.”

Rachel is laughing though. “I know, I know. I’m sorry for the mental images.”

Kurt just rolls his eyes and it’s nice because Rachel is happy.

Rachel is really happy and this is the first time he’s seen her like this in so long.

Quinn is standing by the base of the stairs when he follows his roommate down them a few minutes later.

“Hey,” she says and Rachel smiles at her and—Kurt thinks, at least—mouths the word back.

“You okay, Kurt?”

Kurt nods, frowning at the way Rachel is staring at Quinn. “Yeah,” he says anyway. “I’m alright.”

He sees Blaine standing over by the couch, listening to something Puck, Sam and Artie are playfully arguing about

He doesn’t even think about it before meeting his husband halfway, leaving Rachel and Quinn behind to do so—not that they really seem to care or even notice, as busy as they are talking in low voices to one another.

He shoots them a weird look just as Blaine says, “Feeling better?”

Kurt’s answer is a shrug and a, “Eh.”

Blaine laughs and grabs his hand. “Have you stopped your booby trap plan?”

“Blaine Anderson-Hummel, I am offended that you think so lowly of me! Setting booby traps?” He’s mostly kidding, but he huffs and stomps his foot anyway.

If only to hear Blaine laugh again.

It’s almost like he’s able to enjoy the party after that, drinking some more and even dancing with Blaine a little. He still keeps an eye on Sam, Puck, and Mike, but only with passing interest.

Especially since none of them really make a move towards Rachel.

He can’t help it—a huge part of him still wants to know who it is.

Jesse almost completely eliminates himself when he leaves the party early without saying goodbye to Rachel—who stays behind.

Kurt mentally crosses him off the list as he watches a few of his former classmates attempt a drunken game of musical chairs (they’d wanted to play a party game that _wasn’t_ expected, like Seven Minutes in Heaven, or Never Have I Ever).

Quinn doesn’t play or drink and he wonders if she’s always been this fun at parties and, if so, how she was ever popular in high school.

Rachel doesn’t play either, but he thinks that’s because she’s had a bit _too much_ to drink at that point.

They sit on the couch beside him, pressed against each other, despite the fact that it can fit four people comfortably and he doesn’t take up much space.

He thinks they may be holding hands, but he’s not positive because he’s so focused on screaming, “Sit, Blaine! Sit! To your right! Chair to your _right_!”

And then when Blaine gets out because he didn’t listen to him, he’s busy shaking his head in disappointment and, when he looks back over they’re gone.

He’s not even sure who’s out and who’s in anymore. Brittany and Santana are in—cheating, with Brittany sitting on Santana’s lap, sharing one chair—and Tina, who looks almost embarrassed that she’s made it so far.

And she should be because that means they had a round where no one was out, which doesn’t even _make sense_ , but no one seems to care.

They’re all scattered around the lower floor, sitting in clumps watching the game absently or talking amongst themselves.

Kurt’s throat feels incredibly dry just as Artie starts playing the music— _This is Halloween_ , he thinks—and he mumbles something like, “water,” and, “kitchen,” to Blaine, who nods dumbly.

He manages to push himself off the couch and stumble his way to the kitchen, smiling at Mike, who waves, and nearly tripping over Puck who’s sprawled out on the floor braiding Mercedes’s hair while she gossips with Mike.

The kitchen is farther away than he imagined and it’s a lot darker than he expected. He’s fumbling for the lights when he hears it—a quiet moan and a slight shuffle of footsteps.

His eyes go wide out of curiosity and part of him, despite himself, thinks, _This is it._

Looking around the kitchen as slyly as he can, he jumps a bit when he spots two darkened figures in the hall by the stairs.

He can just make out Rachel’s face, head tipped back as the other person’s mouth is lowered near her neck.

Despite himself, his hand flies up to his mouth because, unwittingly, his plan/trap worked, even when he didn’t really expect it to. Or even _want_ it to.

But here Rachel is, making out with her mysterious someone in his house. At his party.

Except he just saw Mike, so it isn’t him. And Puck was there too.

Jesse left God-only-knows how long ago.

So that just leaves Sam.

A burst of excitement thrills through his veins and his heart is pumping so loudly that it’s drumming in eighth notes to the song playing in spurts in the living room.

Something—the alcohol, the night, the lingering impression of Finn—makes him open his mouth and ruin it, even as he’s replaying his earlier conversation with Rachel.

Something makes him yell, “Guards, seize him!” because he really just wants the satisfaction of having been _right._

That and he loves the drama of it all and it was the first phrase that came to mind.

Of course, he hadn’t expected anyone to listen.

Which is why he shrieks when someone does, pushing past him and into the hallway to barrel straight into Rachel’s neck assailant, tugging them away with the force of being tackled.

The music stops.

Someone—Santana it sounds like—says, “What the bloody fuck? Is someone getting whacked off?”

He can just hear Brittany laugh at this and repeat the phrase, but then everyone else is crowding around him to see what’s happened.

Rachel, for her part, doesn’t respond. She just stares down at the whole thing with wide eyes.

And then she turns to Kurt and—Good God Almighty—he’s _never_ seen her look so angry before.

“Kurt Elizabeth Hummel!” He can see it—the struggle to maintain her composure even in such trying times as these. But then she just says, “What…What the _hell_ are you doing?”

“I second that,” Blaine says behind him.

“I think it’s exciting,” is what Brittany says.

Artie nods. “Same.”

One of the shadows in the huddle on the floor says, “Wow, I am _really_ sorry. He just said it so spirited, you know? And I’ve always wanted to do that,” as they get to their feet.

Someone who looks and sounds suspiciously like—

“That’s…God, _ow._ That’s okay, Sam.”

And it is Sam, holding onto his victim’s elbow and looking at them apologetically.

Kurt can see it now with his eyes adjusting to the dim lighting.

He can see that the person who was kissing Rachel into the wall was Quinn.

This is what stupefaction feels like.

His mouth opens and closes like a fish.

He can’t help it.

“Kurt, just what do you think you’re doing?!” Rachel demands again and her hands are on her hips now.

She means business.

“I was, I was just…”

He trails off. He doesn’t know.

Rachel stares at him for a moment longer before she turns to Quinn, hand reaching up to inspect her flawless face for recently-acquired imperfections. “Are you okay?” she asks and Kurt feels his stomach bottom out at the tone her voice takes.

“Yeah,” Quinn says quietly. “Just a little bruised….And embarrassed.”

She smiles sheepishly and Rachel keeps her hand on her cheek.

They seemingly forget their audience until Puck is heard from the back of the gaggle saying, “Whoa, okay. This is literally the beginning of a recurring sex dream I’ve had.”

That certainly gets their attention.

Everyone reacts differently of course—Sam and Puck the most awkward, what with Sam’s somewhat non-closure with Rachel and Puck’s not-so-recent-but-permanent breakup with Quinn—but the general consensus sounds a lot like, “Congratulations, guys.”

Even Blaine says it.

Kurt wants to as well, but he can’t get the words out.

In fact, he can’t get _any_ words out until Rachel tugs on her coat not five minutes later and gives him another dirty look before following Quinn out the door.

And even then it’s just, “I’m…Rachel, I’m…” as she gets into Quinn’s passenger seat and Quinn backs out of the driveway.

He doesn’t get his brain back until after everyone has left, leaving his living room a mess.

He goes to bed before cleaning it and before Burt and Carole—who seem to have taken the term “date _night”_ a little too liberally, seeing as it’s nearly three in the morning—can return home to scold him.

.

It’s not that it doesn’t make sense, he decides around the time the sun comes up.

Blaine is snoring softly in the bed beside him and he knows that just one wall over is Finn’s empty room.

It’s not that it doesn’t add up, because it does.

Quinn, as far as he figured out their junior year, has always been in love with Rachel.

And, with Santana telling Rachel about that over the summer, it was bound to put a weird new spin on their attempt at friendship.

And sure they’d been a bit cuddly and awkward since they actually managed to become friends a couple of months ago, but he was _really_ not expecting this.

Of course, then he remembers Rachel’s phone conversation about dinner with someone’s mom and then Santana’s comment about Quinn and Judy from earlier on in the night.

He remembers all those weekend trips to New Haven and Rachel saying, “Happy and in love,” like she’d forgotten those things are supposed to be mutually exclusive.

It’s easy to hate himself and how ridiculous he’s been.

It’s easy to realize how much he’s screwed up.

.

Rachel doesn’t answer his calls that morning or afternoon.

He doesn’t expect her too.

But he’s still at the door of her dad’s condo that afternoon, despite his pounding headache, with an extra pumpkin loaf in his hands.

Her dad answers the door of course and happily accepts his gift before directing him to the kitchen where he finds a pensive Rachel taking out her frustration on a potato she’s peeling.

She doesn’t notice him enter until he says, “I’m sorry, Rachel.”

She stops peeling, which is for the best, really, because she looked about ready to slice a finger off. That isn’t to say she answers, though.

So, Kurt does what he’s always seen in movies—those ones where someone screws up and attempts to apologize to the unforgiving injured party.

He keeps talking.

“I know that…I know that you deserve to be happy and that…and that this is none of my business, but…I just…I was so worried, Rach. I really was.” He pauses to take a shaky breath. “I was worried because you seemed more…devoted than you have since-since…”

The hitch in her shoulders tells him that she knows what he’s getting at.

“Sam was a passing fling and I was wary until it didn’t seem serious, but-but I…” He stops himself because none of this really sounds like an apology. “I’m sorry, okay? I know I can be a-a—”

“—Prince John?”

Kurt can’t help but smile at that, even as he chafes. Only Rachel would pull out a _Robin Hood_ reference when she can’t even look at him.

“Exactly,” he says, too hungover to argue. His head is pounding and it’s a little worse now that _Phony King of England_ is faintly thudding in it.

“I can’t apologize enough. Clearly you guys weren’t ready to tell people and it was wrong of me to force you to out yourself. And…Quinn makes you happy. I’m glad you’re happy, Rachel. She’s a lovely girl and…I honestly always thought she loved you. She’ll treat you right and you deserve this.”

He means every word, even though he sort of feels like he’s about to barf all over the linoleum.

Part of him is a little hurt when Rachel just turns around—not even coming close enough for him to hug her.

But he’s earned this.

“I’ll apologize to Quinn, too, okay? Next time I see her.”

It’s hard to believe, but he thinks Rachel may be blushing. She’s certainly biting her bottom lip enough.

The memory of her rushing in late to his party last night—flushed and messy and grinning stupidly—rushes to mind and he shivers at the unbidden thoughts that accompany it.

He’s much too nauseated to deal with _that_.

“I forgive you, you know. Even if you’re sure to be known as Kurt the Worst.”

He laughs because she lets him hug her then and he can’t even bring himself to complain about her potato-juice-hands rubbing into the back of his coat.

“I know, I know,” he concedes, pressing his cheek to her hair.

Before he leaves, he says, “Love you,” like he has for years now and it’s nice that she doesn’t hesitate to say it back.

.

As they’re waiting for the table to be set with food that night, Blaine leans away from his mother—who’s chatting happily with Burt—and says, “So, was your trap successful then?”

There’s equal parts chagrin and amusement in the question.

Kurt shakes his head at his husband and bumps their feet together under the table. “No, I’m afraid my mystery-solving days are over.”

“Is that so, Mr. Jones?” Blaine jokes. “You did look good in that ascot, though. Maybe you should keep that.”

Kurt’s head is hurting less now and he finds himself biting his lip, much like Rachel had in the kitchen earlier.

He hums and says, “Yeah, maybe,” and then Carole is coming in with the food.

It’s Pam—Blaine’s mom—who asks him what he’s thankful for just after Carole makes them say grace.

And he’s heard that question Thanksgiving after Thanksgiving—it’s just what you _ask_ on that day.

He’s not even surprised.

What he _is_ surprised by is that he doesn’t really have an answer.

Or, more that he has a sudden rush of things he wants to say—like keeping in touch with high school friends and late-in-the-season Halloween parties; Brittany and even Santana living close enough to see every couple of weeks, even though he’s disappointed to find out that they’ve known about Rachel and Quinn much longer than him when they announce it a few weeks later. He’s grateful for the fact that he didn’t even _have_ to ask Puck to do a liquor run before he showed up last night.

He’s thankful for Quinn changing so much and that Rachel is happy—which he’ll regret in a few days when he asks “how it happened” and she divulges the secret of what _really_ happened between her dinner with Judy and his party the night before.

He’s thankful for Blaine holding his hand and Carole smiling at him like that, his dad beating prostate cancer and being around for another Thanksgiving.

He’s thankful for Finn and the fact that there’s a dent in that one sofa cushion where he always used to sit. For some of his things remaining untouched in his bedroom.

Hell, he’s thankful for _Scooby Doo_ and Agatha Christie, even though he’s never in his life picked up a mystery novel.

Maybe he’s just thankful that he knows enough now to know that always _knowing_ isn’t necessary.

If that makes sense.

But, of course, he can’t say all of that.

And everyone is staring at him expectantly.

Kurt smiles.

What he says is, “Oh, you know. Plenty of things.”

…

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: title from Disney's Robin Hood's "Phony King of England".
> 
> references to Monster Mash by Bobby Picket, Weird Watusi by John Zacherle, This is Halloween from Disney's The Nightmare Before Christmas, several to Scooby Doo, one to Agatha Christie, etc. 
> 
> sorry if i forgot someone.


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